"What drives him, Barry? What makes him push himself the way he does?"
"Do you know about his father?" Barry asked.
"Mr. Reynolds mentioned him during my interview. It sounds like he loves him very much."
"Loved. Oscar Reynolds was executed at the state penitentiary in Columbia, South Carolina, when Matt was eight years old. He was sentenced to death after being convicted of rape and murder."
"My God!"
"Two years later, another man confessed to the crime.
"Matt doesn't talk about it, for obvious reasons. His mother had a nervous breakdown when Matt's dad was sentenced to prison. She committed suicide a week after the execution. Matt stayed in a series of foster homes until a distant relative took him in. He never talks about what happened there, but I think it was pretty bad."
Tracy felt she should say something, but she could not think of anything even remotely appropriate. What Barry had just told her was too enormous. And it certainly explained all of the questions she had about Reynolds's fanatic devotion to his cause.
Tracy tried to imagine what life must have been like for eightyear-old Matthew Reynolds, growing up with a mother who committed suicide, a father who was executed for a sex crime and murder and a disfiguring birthmark that would be an easy target for the cruelty of children.
"He must have been so alone," Tracy said.
"He's still alone. I'm probably the closest thing he has to a friend."
Barry paused. They walked together in silence, because Barry was obviously struggling with what he wanted to say and Tracy sensed it was important enough to wait to hear.
"There's another reason Matt's so successful," Barry said finally.
"Other lawyers have a life outside the law. Matt's life is the law. And I'm not exaggerating. He literally has no interests outside of his job, except maybe his correspondence chess. I think the real world has been so unbearably cruel to him that he uses the law as a place to hide, a place where he can feel safe.
"Think about it. It's like his chess. There are rules of law, and he knows every damn one of them. In the courtroom, the rules protect him from harm. He can bury himself in his cases and pretend that nothing but his cases exist.
"And as a lawyer, he's needed. Hell, he's the only friend some of his clients have ever had."
Barry looked down and they walked in silence again. Tracy waited for him to talk about his boss some more, so she could better understand him. Instead, Barry suddenly asked, "Do you still run?"
"What?"
"I asked if you still run."
"I've been getting in a workout on the weekends," Tracy answered distractedly, finding it hard to switch to this innocuous topic after what she had just learned. "I'm lucky if I get out at all during the week."
"How far do you go?"
"Seven, eight miles. Just enough to keep the old heart and lungs going."
"What's your pace?"
"I'm doing six-and-a-half-minute miles."
"Mind if I join you sometime?"
Tracy hesitated. She wasn't sure if Frame wanted a workout partner or a date. Then she decided it didn't matter. It was more fun running with someone than running alone. Frame was a good-looking guy and she wasn't seeing anyone. She would go with the flow.
"I used to run after work on weekdays back in the good old days. But now I run before work, which means before dawn, when I can, and on the weekends."
"Tell you what," Frame said. "Why don't we run about nine on Sunday, then eat brunch at Papa Hayden's."
"You're on," Tracy said, smiling, as she started to detect the direction the river was running.
Chapter TWELVE
Assistant Attorney General Chuck Geddes reluctantly agreed to wait until the day after the funeral to interview Abigail Griffen, but only after Jack Stamm suggested that confronting a widow on the day her husband was buried might be seen as insensitive and in bad taste. It was the "bad taste" part that swayed Geddes, who prided himself on his impeccable judgment in all things.
Geddes had the rugged good looks of the men who modeled in cigarette commercials, and he walked like a man with a steel rod for a spine. He had developed this marching style while in the Judge Advocate's office during his military service. His views were as unbending as his posture. When he lost a trial, it was always due to the judge's intellectual deficits, the underhanded tactics of an unscrupulous opponent or the stupidity of the jurors. To give him his due, Geddes did win his share of tough cases. He had been appointed attorney-in-charge of the District/Attorney Assistance Program at the Department of Justice because he was the most successful trial attorney in the section. Geddes was relentless, possessed of animal cunning and quite able to charm a jury.
The policeman guarding Abbie's house relaxed when he recognized Jack Stamm. As soon as Stamm parked, Geddes got out of the front passenger seat and straightened the jacket of his tan lightweight Brioni suit.
Neil Christenson, his investigator, got out of the back seat while Geddes was adjusting his French cuffs.
Christenson was third-generation law enforcement and a former state trooper who had been with the Department of Justice for nine years. He had the type of heavy build you would expect from an ex-Oregon State lineman who was too busy to keep in top shape but still managed to jog a little and pump iron on occasion.
Christenson wore his hair in a crew cut, but his friendly blue eyes and easy smile made him less intimidating than normal for a man his size.
While Geddes dressed to kill, Christenson wore a worn tweed sports jacket that was too heavy for summer, lightweight tan slacks, a blue oxford dress shirt with a frayed collar and no tie.
Abbie looked exhausted when she opened the door. She wasn't wearing makeup, her hair had only received a perfunctory brushing and there were dark circles under her eyes. She had made only the briefest attempt to clean up after the mourners who had followed her home from the cemetery.
Overflowing ashtrays, dirty plates and partially filled cups of coffee littered the living room.
"How are you feeling?" Stamm asked.
"I'm doing okay."
Abbie looked past Stamm to the two men who were standing behind him.
"This is Chuck Geddes. He's with the District Attorney Assistance Program at the Department Of Justice, and this is his investigator, Neil Christenson."
"My condolences. Justice Griffen's death was a terrible tragedy,"
Geddes said, stepping around Stamm and offering his hand.
Abbie looked confused and a little wary. "What's going on, Jack?" i "Can we come in?" Stamm asked. Ab e stepped aside. She looked at the mess in the living room and led everyone into the kitchen, where there had been some damage control.
"I've got coffee if anyone's interested."
"Is it decaf?." Geddes asked.
"Not this morning," Abbie answered.
Stamm and Christenson asked for theirs black, but Geddes demurred.
The kitchen window looked out at a small deck and beyond to a fenced backyard. A flower garden separated the fence from the lawn. Scarlet fuchsias, yellow gladioli and pink tea roses created a bouquet of bright colors that contrasted with the gloom in the kitchen.
"What brings you here?" Abbie asked when everyone was seated around the kitchen table. Stamm looked at Abbie briefly, then looked down at his cup.
"I'm in a very unpleasant position. One that ' will make it impossible for me to continue the investigation of Justice Griffen's murder.
The Portland police are also stepping aside. Chuck has been appointed as a special deputy district attorney for Multnomah County. It's his case now."
Abbie looked perplexed. "Why do you have to bow out? What happened?"